Nature’s broken off brown paper
Crumples inwards and caves inwards.
Flickers of marching band trumpets
Within the harsh sounded breezes.
Ages may always repeat
Yet one always comes and goes.

There is a sure stir in the air
As time seems to be in favour.
New short waves from the next
Generation show maturity.

The buildings shift,
But those who crawl back
From labour hours
Wait for something big;
One small tick.

This current softness,
From one year only before,
Seems to be
A global calm
Before the storm
Of change.